Good morning, Ravkan Fashion Squad! Here’s an entry for a sleek kefta upgrade for Alina, whether or not she is the Tsaritsa of Ravka, the General’s Bride, or some other, to-be-determined title that reflects her decision not to retreat to the orphanage at Keramzin with Mal.
I love the lines on this and the pleats and don’t forget those gloves!
@orlissa @montmartre-parapluie @vesperass-anuna @fericita-s @theburnbarreljester
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Sometimes I really do be thinkin’ about bein’ the new member of the League. Like you’re useful and your quirk is powerful so Shigaraki wants to keep you around, but oh my God do you have an attitude. Like you’ll do what he wants you to eventually but you’re always going to complain or throw him a lil’ attitude first.
So like one day, he tells you it’s your turn to go to the store and as expected, you give him flack. You do it, but you’re rollin’ your eyes and just bein’ an impudent little bitch and what not. As you’re leaving, Dabi makes an offhanded comment that gives Tomura a far-fetched idea.
‘Christ, it would take a world class brat wrangler to tame that little bitch.’
Maybe that’s exactly what you need.
So later that night, it’s late. Really late. Only you and Tomura are awake at this point. He’s used to operating on little to no sleep, but he knows you turn into a cranky little thing when you have to wake up early. He tells you to go to bed, and you blatantly refuse. He tells you again, and you look him dead in the eye and go
“You’re not my dad.”
He sighs, pushing himself up from his chair, and you think that you’ve probably worn him down today and he’s going to go sleep off your poison. What you don’t expect is for him to appear directly behind your bar stool, threading one hand through your hair to the roots and fisting it to yank your head back, arching your spine as you’re forced to look up at him.
“I don’t remember asking for your fucking opinion every time I give you an order. I’m the boss around here, and you will do as I say, brat.”
You’re flustered as hell, but he knows it’s not going to be as easy as this. You so much as open your lips to retort and he’s going to slam you over the counter and bend you, keeping total control with the hand firmly planted in your hair. His other hand occupies itself by shoving two of his long ass fingers inside your mouth as he kicks the stool you were sitting on out of the way. Anytime you try to make a single sound, he’s going to push his fingers further and further back until they’re padding near the entrance to your throat and you’re drooling all over him.
“I might not be your father, but clearly you need a strong figure to teach you some manners. If it has to be me, so be it. But you will learn to take orders and shut that pretty little mouth of yours until I tell you I want it open. Do you understand?”
You’ll nod, because it’s the only option he gives you. With your acceptance of the situation, he’ll remove his fingers and wipe your gratuitous slobber on your cheek. The press of his pelvis against your ass has got your hips squirming and you’re more than a lil’ certain you can feel what he’s packin’, but if you think he’s going to address it right now, you’ve got another thing coming, and it’s definitely not you.
“Now be a good girl and do what I tell you to. Go to bed.”
And just as quickly as he was on you, he’s gone. You’re left dumbfounded, confused, and aroused all at once cause no one has had the balls to take control of you like that before, let alone your fucking boss who you could have sworn didn’t even know what sex was. Apparently there’s a side to him you didn’t know; apparently there’s a side to yourself you didn’t either. But if he wants your obedience, he’s going to have to earn it.
The thing about brat taming? You’re not much of a brat at all if all it takes is once.
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I would like to preface about the Sherlock Holmes club, it existed before I arrived. It was made by 3 senior girls who wanted an excuse to get together and watch BBC Sherlock. I still remember running up to the table during the club meet and greet and talking a mile a minute about the stories and they’re like “yeah that’s cool but we mostly talk the BBC show”. I loved the club that first year, we watched BBC Shelock and some of the classic Granada stories, even Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century to compare and contrast.
When they graduated the next year and I was made president (IE... literally there was no one else in the club to do us, it was just us 4) I’m the one who revamped it and made it in a general mystery appreciation club and put so much mental energy, time and energy into creating a cohesive mystery experience so people could learn/enjoy classic detective stories. I made/compiled fun activities, I paid for and hosted a mystery dinner every year, I found easy to read stories and tried to encourage discussion, rented out the local theater to show movies.... and the only people who showed up were my friends who didn’t often want to enage.
I put my heart and fucking soul into the club and no one reciprocated the tiniest amount except when I got tired and caved and just started doing fandom stuff. Its been 5 years and that still stings.
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